


The Curse of the Green Thong

by Twice_Shy (notboldly)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining, Underwear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-18 08:18:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4698860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notboldly/pseuds/Twice_Shy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After finding a thong in the communal washing machine, Stiles makes some hasty assumptions about what his roommate does for a living. (Mistaken-for-a-stripper!AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Curse of the Green Thong

Stiles knew you weren't supposed to look for roommates on Craigslist. He'd heard the horror stories, read the paper, and he _knew_ that, okay? But when his already-flaky roommate of six months moved out without a word of warning, leaving him to eat two months of shorted rent on top of his mounting tuition and textbook costs, he got desperate. Sure, he could have asked his dad for help, he knew that too, but around his second week of being roommate-less, his dad called and asked him how he was, if the city was too expensive, if he was having any problems, and Stiles couldn't make himself admit that he was in over his head. He posted the ad the very next day, right after hurriedly checking the couch for spare change a second time.

Still, even being desperate and nearly destitute, Stiles admitted he probably should've screened the responses a little more thoroughly. It was this oversight that led to him getting the hottest, angriest roommate of all time, which was saying something since he lived in _New York City_. There was a lot of hot and angry to go around.

Derek Hale—which sounded like an alias, of course it did, _Stiles was so getting murdered_ — showed up to glower on his doorstep with one bag of belongings, no furniture, and the first two months rent in cash, and Stiles couldn't say no. It was too good of a deal to pass up, even if he eyed Derek's broad chest with trepidation and worried about the flimsy lock on his bedroom door.

"Um. I won't put you on the lease until there's been a trial period, and the rent's gonna be a 60-40 split for a while because I'm still paying back from a previous roommate—"

"That's fine," Derek interrupted, voice curt and monotone as he shoved the pile of money at Stiles's chest. It was a little aggressive, which meant the arrangement definitely was _not_ fine, but Derek at least made no move to push past him or brain him with a nearby lamp while his hands were full. Stiles figured that was the best he could expect from Craigslist, and he clutched the money to his chest, hoping he wasn't about to make the last mistake of his life.

With one last deep breath and a prayer, Stiles took an enormous step back so Derek could come inside.

***

Stiles left the ad up on Craigslist for another month, on the very slim chance that his ideal roommate (wealthy, idle, possibly interested in paying Stiles's tuition) actually frequented Craigslist. He received the expected response instead, which consisted of a handful of freeloaders, fifty spam emails, and a dozen messages that he'd expect from a sketchy dating site. After the eighth message from some creep propositioning him and calling him a twink thanks to the pictures of him showing off his _lavish_ two-bedroom apartment, Stiles was forced to admit defeat and take the ad down. Clearly, Derek was the best he was going to get.

Derek wasn't a bad roommate, in all honesty. He was quiet and about as likely to glare as he was to nod when they passed each other in the hallway, but he also never quibbled about paying for half the groceries, didn't listen to loud music at odd hours, and didn't habitually leave a mess in the kitchen. Aside from making Stiles feel like he needed to tiptoe around the apartment in the morning just in case _any_ noise was enough noise to disturb Derek, it wasn't terrible, and even his lingering paranoia about the noise disappeared when he realized that Derek worked nights. He was usually out of the apartment when Stiles came home from class, and when he wasn't, Derek was quick to retreat back to his room like he was following some unspoken living room timeshare. It was fine, good, and even if Stiles would've preferred to be a little more friendly with the only person he saw regularly in the city, he convinced himself he could live with the mutual ignoring instead. He still Skyped with Scott and his dad and had even made some friends in his classes, so it wasn't like he was lonely.

Then, two months into their trial period and for the first time in his college life, Stiles had three afternoon classes canceled on one day. Despite toying with the idea of putting in some hours at the library, he came home early instead, fully intending to use the extra time as any responsible college student would. Plans to catch up on Game of Thrones and screw around on the internet immediately left his mind, however, when he opened the front door and saw Derek sitting on the couch and eating cereal. 

In nothing but his _underwear_.

They stared at each other for a solid minute. Derek had immediately stopped chewing when Stiles had opened the door and he now looked guilty as hell (as he should; that _wasn't his couch_ and Stiles felt that implied it was a "pants required" zone) but Stiles just…looked. Even when he fumbled the door closed, nearly closing it on his raggedy backpack, he couldn't bring himself to look away. Derek was solidly built, made of well-defined muscle and covered with dark hair, and he was wearing the tiniest, whitest pair of underwear Stiles had ever seen. They weren't even decent dude underwear, of the ratty and well-worn boxer kind, but instead boxer briefs that clung to Derek's muscular thighs and very clearly outlined what he was working with, dick-wise. It felt like the beginning to a very awkward porno, and Stiles stared. Anyone would.

It took another twenty seconds for Stiles to realize he was blatantly staring at his roommate's dick, and his eyes jerked away, catching Derek's gaze in the retreat. Derek's face was bright red, the flush visible even under his dark beard, and Stiles was mortified.

"Hey Derek! Look at you, sitting on the couch. I didn't know you even knew we had a couch!" It wasn't funny, barely even a joke, but Stiles babbled it out anyway.

Meanwhile, Derek just stared at him, face blank and the red in his cheeks obviously there to stay. Stiles took that as a sign, possibly a sign that Derek was counting to ten in his head before murdering him horribly.

"Right. I'm going to—right."

Without waiting for a response, Stiles bolted to his room and shut the door, slamming it hard enough that the door knob vibrated in his hand. His heart was racing, and he knew that if he looked in a mirror, he'd find his face a blotchy, ugly red. He wasn't someone who blushed prettily, not like _Derek_ apparently did, and it took all his willpower to stop the comparison right there.

That had gone beyond locker room curiosity levels of staring. If anything, it was a little creepy, and Stiles wouldn't have blamed Derek at all if this was the straw that broke the angry camel's back. Stiles even waited for it, bracing himself against the door in preparation and listening with an ear pressed to the flimsy wood. He expected a confrontation (once Derek had put on as many layers of clothing as humanly possible), possibly some yelling, or maybe even Derek deciding to move out, far away from his ogling roommate.

All he heard was the TV being shut off and, after a minute or so of silence, the sound of running water, like Derek was rinsing his bowl out in the kitchen. It was deceptively anticlimactic, and after another few seconds of tense waiting, Stiles reluctantly went to his desk to start his homework. If he was going to be interrupted by angry knocking in the next few minutes, he wanted it to be in the middle of an essay rather than an episode.

He was three-quarters of the way finished with his first draft when he heard Derek leave for work, and then he just stared at his door, concentration broken anyway.

Nothing. Not one angry word, threat, or uncomfortable confrontation.

Apparently, Stiles was going to have to move Derek up one notch on 'hot,' and down one on 'angry.'

***

Despite Stiles's continued uneasiness, things returned mostly to normal after that. The only discernable difference seemed to be that Stiles sometimes suspected he saw Derek a little more often, but it probably only felt that way because he was made of awkwardness. If Stiles now occasionally wondered about Derek's gym regiment and taste in cereal when he passed him in the hallway, well, he told himself that wasn't really a problem. Through a careful balance of self-restraint and internet porn, Stiles managed to keep his eyes to himself, and then finals were upon him and he didn't have time to even be tempted. After a hectic three weeks, five final exams and two final papers, Stiles was done working, at least until he had to find a summer job to supplement his loans. He made the most of his brief reprieve by not budging from the couch except to answer the door for delivery and—after much deliberation—to visit the landlord to add Derek to the lease. It had been months and the change was long past due, especially in light of the realization that Derek might be nicer than his first impression said.

Their new truce came to an abrupt halt around the end of May, when Stiles made the life-altering decision to do his laundry.

The day started off normally. The building's communal laundry room was thankfully deserted on that particular Wednesday afternoon, and Stiles had waited until Derek left for work before rolling off the couch. It hadn't been a deliberate delay, not really, but when Derek had come back from finishing his own laundry and lingered in the living room, it had seemed polite to turn up that episode of The FBI Files while Derek snagged a corner of the couch. Then it had seemed polite to watch four more episodes since Derek wasn't the best at navigating Netflix and Stiles was loathe to end their tentative socializing. Even though Stiles's stomach started growling after the second episode, he stubbornly stayed on the coach, all but basking in the half-smile Derek shot him. So, really, not deliberate.

When Derek left for work with a short wave, that _had_ seemed a little surreal, but in a good way. If it meant that Stiles went about doing his laundry in a thoughtful daze with a big grin on his face, well, he was just surprised. So surprised that he almost didn't notice when he bent down to load his clothes in the washer, and something was already there.

Stiles grumbled but obligingly dropped his armful of clothes back in their basket. He reached for the abandoned item, fumbling in the dark belly of the washing machine for a few moments before his fingers closed around something small and cool, a little rough on the edges. Stiles made a face as he pulled it out, not very surprised to find himself holding a thong. He would've tossed it—those things were what, seven or eight bucks?—but before he could so much as drop it on the washer to dispose of later, something caught his eye, and he forced himself to look at it a little closer. The thong was high-cut, with lime green lace around what was frankly a god awful dark green leopard print pattern, but what stood out most was the shape. There was room up front, in a way girl thongs simply didn't have.

He dropped it in shock, right into a pile of lint and grit. The shock wasn't because it was a guy's thong (he was in college, after all, and had definitely seen weirder) but because their apartment was close enough to the laundry room that Stiles knew only three people had washed laundry that day. To his knowledge, only one of them was penis-packing.

Derek. 

Derek, who apparently owned an incredibly tacky green thong.

Stiles stared down at the condemning fabric lying innocently on the grimy floor, and unexpectedly, the small things he'd noticed over their months together began to add up.

Derek worked nights. Derek occasionally came home in an entirely different outfit than the one he'd left in, something that had really freaked Stiles out when he'd still suspected that Derek planned to murder him in his sleep. This worry had mostly disappeared when he'd realized that Derek also weirdly came home covered in glitter sometimes, and Stiles knew that because he had to vacuum that shit off the couch cushions once a week; the dust buster did not lie. But the most telling clue was that Derek, above all, did not talk about his work, ever. Combined with one terrible green thong and the fact that Derek was clearly hot enough to do classy porn, Stiles could come to only one conclusion.

His roommate—Stiles's exceptionally hot roommate who apparently liked crime shows and was now on waving goodbye terms with him—was a stripper. A stripper who'd left his _uniform_ in the washer, where it had stayed until Stiles had dropped it on the gross floor. He felt a little guilty about that, or at least he did once his mind had managed to move away from the idea of Derek in a _green thong._

On autopilot, Stiles picked it up and threw it in the washing machine. He tried not to think about it too much when he went a little heavy handed with the fabric softener, and he barely glanced at the thong when he tossed it in the antiquated dryer immediately after the washer cycle finished. He waited with his shoulders tensed and one eye on the laundry room door, ignoring his own laundry until the thong was done, and when he pulled it out, he couldn't help but notice that the color was…not that bad really. Unbidden, the observation brought with it another image of Derek. Not strutting across a stage, but in a store, carefully examining underwear, scowling when they were lacking. Stiles didn't know how someone picked out thongs, but he imagined Derek touching the fabric, looking at the way the material draped over his fingers and checking that the color went with his skin tone. Derek methodically did his hair every day, even if he was only going to be lazing around the apartment; Stiles seriously doubted he'd overlook a single detail when it came to clothes, and in Stiles's mind, Derek was thorough. Even tried them on.

When Stiles came out of his fantasy—oh God, his _underwear buying fantasy_ —he found himself mindlessly rubbing the thong between his thumb and forefinger. Stiles promptly dropped it on top of the washer, because while he was a pervert and he admitted that freely, he didn't look at Derek that way, okay, very determinedly _did not_. Even if Derek's evening activities involved shaking his exceptionally fine ass on a stage somewhere, it was none of Stiles's business. None at all.

When Stiles was done with his laundry and safely back in his apartment, he immediately tucked the thong into Derek's clothes basket and tried his best not to think about it at all, ever again.

***

The thing is, while Stiles could put the thong away, it turned out he couldn't put either it or his realization out of his mind. Even when he tried (and oh boy, did he try) it seemed like the littlest things that Derek did would inevitably drag Stiles's mind back to a pair of lacy underwear. If Derek shifted on the couch, Stiles's attention honed in on the movement and wondered why. If Derek was folding his super-soft towels, Stiles immediately wondered if he'd used too much fabric softener, or not enough. If Derek made an omelet at an odd hour of the day—an _omelet_ , for fuck's sake—Stiles wondered if the little splotch of oil he got on his shirt was above the hypothetical panty line, or below it.

It was driving him fucking insane, and Derek wasn't an idiot; he'd noticed Stiles had been acting weird, judging by the looks he sometimes shot him while doing the dishes or during their newly realized crime show bonding time. Their interactions were going to reach critical awkwardness any day now, Stiles knew it, and so in desperation, he brought it up during his weekly Skype call with Scott. Scott wasn't the best influence, but he did have a significantly higher chance of success than anybody else when it came to talking Stiles out of his unfortunate obsessions.

Admittedly, Stiles could have tried a better lead-in. Or at least waited a couple minutes, rather than starting that evening's call with:

"I think I'm obsessed with my roommate's underwear."

Scott choked on his 'hello' and looked at Stiles with a baffled, slightly betrayed expression.

"Dude, what? Are you talking about your angry, serial killer roommate?"

Stiles flushed. He might have mentioned Derek a couple times in passing in the beginning of their time as roommates, but around the time he'd realized Derek was all growl and no bite, he'd featured significantly less as a conversation topic. It had seemed logical at the time, since Stiles's infatuations were legendary and the last thing he needed was Scott erroneously assuming he had a crush just because he actually got along with his roommate (for once.)

Then again, the months of silence on the subject probably made the current conversation seem so much worse.

"No, the nice one. Derek, who is super nice." Scott didn't look convinced, but Stiles knew he was overselling it anyway. "Not the point, Scotty. You've roomed with someone and then started dating them during, right? You…think about that much beforehand? Like, think about their underwear in particular?"

Scott looked ridiculously appalled, which was rich considering Stiles knew he went through more condoms each month than an STD clinic.

" _No_. What the hell, Stiles?" Scott darted his eyes around, like he thought Derek was lurking in Stiles's bedroom. Ha, if only. "I don't even want to know what you're doing with some dude's underwear."

"It's not 'some dude,' Scott," Stiles insisted, "it's Derek, and I was ogling him while he made an omelet yesterday. _An omelet, Scott._ This is not a drill!"

Scott looked sympathetic, but also not terribly impressed.

" I dunno what you want me to tell you, dude."

Of course he didn't. Scott's world was simple, and Scott had never had his flirting end in anything other than a kinky, romantic threesome. _Never_. He'd definitely never had to deal with wanting to bone his hot, stripper roommate. 

Stiles thunked his head against his desk and groaned, the sound muffled against the cheap particle board.

"Tell me something! I can't do anything, Scott." And then, because it needed repeating, "It's _Derek_." Because as hot as Derek was, Derek was still Stiles's kind of fantastic roommate, who was just beginning to warm up to him enough to show his fuzzy, sarcastic side. There had even been talk about Derek's family coming up to visit in the future, and about sharing another lease next year. Everything was going so well, and Stiles knew he shouldn't have even been thinking about messing it up by bringing sex feelings into the mix.

Honestly, it was all the damn thong's fault.

"You could try asking him out?" Stiles looked up, and Scott made a face like he was regretting ever getting involved. "I know you're more of a five-year planner than a doer—"

" _Hey._ "

"—but you could probably just ask him. If you wanted." Scott hesitated, but he smiled a little before continuing. "I mean, you don't know. He might think you're pretty great too."

As much as Stiles hated to admit it, Scott occasionally had a point. And even if Stiles would have put it a different way—he was obviously great, okay, what he wanted to know was if Derek considered him boneable and worth the potential roommate fallout—the advice was most likely sound anyway.

So he tried it. One morning, while Derek was eating his Fruity Pebbles and Cheerios mix, what the fuck, Stiles pulled out the chair on the other side of their little table, and had the question out before he'd even fully sat down.

"Hey Derek. You dating anyone?" That was subtle, wasn't it? Stiles could be subtle.

Derek immediately froze, his spoon halfway between his bowl and his mouth.

"No," he said, drawing the word out with his eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Why? Because if you're trying to hook me up with someone, I really don't like blind dates. Laura used to pull that all the time."

'Laura' pinged Stiles's memory, and it took him a moment for him to remember she was Derek's "too nosy sister." It wasn't an auspicious start to the conversation, and Stiles immediately backpedaled.

"No, no blind dates! Just, you know, curious. About you." Derek still looked confused, but at least he no longer looked like he was expecting a blind date to jump out of the pantry. Christ, what had Stiles been _thinking_? He was the least subtle person on Earth. "I realized that, well, we don't actually talk that often. Or I talk and you listen, and that's kind of one-sided, right?" 

Derek nodded, probably an automatic response to the rapid onslaught of words. Stiles kept talking, unable to stop them now.

"And, you know, I think you're an interesting guy, and you should totally have the freedom to bitch about your sisters or your-your _job_ , without me, like, barreling over you. Metaphorically! Because I doubt I could knock you over or anything in real life; you're totally a brick house, dude."

Derek nodded again, but this time he was looking down at his bowl and almost...smiling? That was rare enough by itself, even ignoring the fact that Stiles had never seen this bashful, barely-smile before, and Stiles had to stop talking to stare.

"Thanks, Stiles." The words sounded sincere, grateful even, and Stiles was confused. "This is about my job, right? You noticed that I've been having a rough few weeks."

Something in Stiles's brain short-circuited, but he managed to nod hurriedly. Derek was still smiling, it was adorable, and that was a good sign, right? Even if this wasn't the exact conversation Stiles had been expecting.

"Yeah. Yeah, I mean, I'm pretty astute." 

Derek nodded again, expression almost open. Stiles felt ridiculously pleased with himself.

"So. Yeah. If you wanted to talk about it?" Stiles could handle it. Probably.

Derek shrugged.

"It's not a big deal. Just the usual money problems, and I worry about some of the kids sometimes."

Stiles nodded again, feeling a bit like a bobblehead but not wanting to stop when it made Derek keep smiling like that.

"Yeah, that's…totally understandable. Oh shit, are you short this month? Because you totally don't have to split the grocery bill when I buy sunscreen, dude, that shit is all me. I burn instantly, it's my Crisco complexion, I swear to God."

Derek laughed at that, a small sort of chuckle, and Stiles…god, Stiles was gone, one hundred percent. He maybe should've expected that, the realization that he might've had a little bit of a crush, on top of his general thoughts about Derek's hotness. Possibly. It was a staggering feeling, but at least it answered one question; it wasn't the thong's fault.

***

The next time Stiles had laundry day, the thong was there again, this time sitting innocently on top of the washer. It had to be the same one; no way did two people in his building own one of those things.

"Really, Derek? _Really_?" Stiles stared intensely at the ceiling, hoping Derek could somehow be summoned to the basement by exasperation alone. It was unlikely; even if Derek was receptive to that sort of thing, he'd been sleeping all day.

After a minute of the expected no response, Stiles sighed and grabbed the underwear. They were slightly damp in his hand, cool and satiny feeling. They probably felt nice against a dick, which only made sense; if Stiles was going to strut his stuff on stage and under bright lights, he'd want a comfy hammock for his dick too. And, obviously, the thong would look fantastic on Derek, draw eyes to his dick in a fantastic way. Not that he needed the help there, really.

Stiles sighed, a little longingly, before he set the thong aside. It had been almost two weeks since his first attempt at asking Derek out, and so far, all further efforts had failed. Stiles didn’t know if Derek was being obtuse or if he was deliberately derailing the conversation, but every time Stiles brought up the topic of relationships and the possibility there of, Derek suddenly changed the subject. It was frustrating, and Stiles was starting to feel like one of them wasn’t getting the hint.

Stiles tried to be a good roommate despite his frustrations, though; he washed the thong again, handling it with care from washer to dryer to basket. This time when he returned to the apartment, though, he gave up on sneakily returning it, and instead left the thong hanging on the doorknob to Derek’s bedroom. Maybe that would help him stop forgetting it, although how someone could forget that eyesore in the first place, Stiles had no idea.

He promptly forgot about both the thong and Derek when he rushed out the door, wearing his dryer-fresh interview clothes. It wasn't his first interview that summer or even that week, but he had a good feeling this time, and his nerves were so close to shot that he didn't have the brain cells to spare to think about anything else. He nearly missed his subway stop, but after a few short minutes of speed walking in his slick dress shoes, he managed to make it there just in time. 

The interview was with a man in his fifties, thick jowled but with a wide smile, who introduced himself as Mick and laughed at Stiles's earnest handshake. Surprisingly, the interview went well, and the follow-up interview was even scheduled before he could leave. After it was over, Stiles came home, hopeful and exhausted, to a dark apartment. He squashed down the automatic disappointment—Derek usually worked Sunday through Thursday, because he had the weirdest stripper schedule ever—and went to his room to shed his stiff formal wear while idly thinking about crashing, or possibly springing for celebratory take-out. He knew what Derek liked from the Thai place down the street, so he could order that too.

The thoughts were still circling in his head while he took his pants off, and when he straightened, he saw something out of the corner of his eye, tripped on a pants leg, and nearly fell face first into the floor.

That damn green thong was sitting on his desk.

Stiles finished undressing with a dangerous lack of awareness and his focus entirely on the thong. He considered, briefly, the idea that he was losing his mind, but while Stiles was tired, he wasn't _that_ tired, and he remembered perfectly well where the thing should've been. Not there. Not on his desk. Not where Derek had had apparently put it.

"What the fuck," Stiles said, loud enough that Derek would've come running if he hadn't been at work. 

Stiles was baffled and too tired for this. He decided to skip the Thai, and as soon as he was down to his underwear, he shut off the light and burrowed into his blankets.

Providing he wasn't hallucinating, he'd deal with that thong—and Derek—later.

***

The thong was still there when he woke up, but this time, there were also the telltale signs of Derek moving around in the kitchen. Stiles guessed it had to be around ten o'clock, but despite the fact that he was well-rested and aware and clearly not hallucinating, he still wasn't sure what to do. There weren't many ways he could interpret Derek giving him his underwear, were there? Like, there was obvious, and then there was _obvious_ , and deliberately leaving underwear on Stiles's desk was the flirting equivalent of taking out a billboard that said "make a move, stupid."

Never let it be said that Stiles couldn't take a really obvious hint, but just to be sure, he decided to ask for once. He went about his morning routine, showered, got dressed, and then brushed his teeth twice, just in case.

When he went into the kitchen, he saw Derek making an omelet, with a glass of orange juice resting next to his elbow. There were actual herbs set out on the counter, and Stiles was briefly impressed and slightly hungry. He would not be distracted, however.

Stiles cleared his throat and casually took a seat at the table.

"Morning, Derek."

"Morning." Derek picked up a whisk and added a splash of milk to his bowl, and Stiles watched for a few seconds before the words came bursting out of him.

"So. I have a hypothetical question."

"Go ahead," Derek answered, still whisking his egg mixture. Stiles thought he was doing a remarkable job of seeming nonchalant, considering, but Stiles was impatient enough to be shamelessly blunt.

"What do you think it means when your roommate gives you their underwear?"

The whisk clacked against the side of the bowl once before going still, and Derek didn't answer. That was fine; even though he immediately began to vigorously mop up the single drop of spilled egg on the counter, it didn't distract from the fact that the back of his neck had gone strikingly pink. Stiles had been right; it wasn't an accident.

With nerves jumping, Stiles hopped off his chair and rounded the counter to stand fully in the kitchen, in what he hoped was an alluring manner.

"Because, if you want to know what _I_ think, I think it's supposed to be flirting. Like, really obvious flirting." Stiles drummed his fingers against the countertop. "Don't you?"

Derek slowly set the bowl and dish cloth aside, and then he turned. His expression was solemn and brooding, the Derek default, but he didn't look like he was regretting anything, at all.

"Yeah. I do." He took a deep breath, like he was readying for a long speech. "Look, Stiles. The truth is, I really like you—"

Stiles leaned forward and kissed him before he could say another word, the rest of his body half a second behind. The kiss was deliberately gentle and coaxing, a planned defense against whatever argument Derek was going to bring up about why they shouldn't even try. Stiles had already thought of them all, anyway, and none of them were going to change his mind.

By the time they were chest to chest, Derek was kissing him back, his mouth hot and demanding and his fingers digging into Stiles's upper arms like he thought he needed to keep him there. Stiles didn't think twice about pressing closer, one hand sliding up to twist in Derek's hair while the other gripped the collar of his shirt until the fabric was pulled taut. A thrill of excitement shot through him when his hand brushed the warm skin over Derek's collarbone, and Stiles didn't even care that his mouth and chin would soon be stinging from stubble burn; it was a fair price to pay for even that first taste of Derek's mouth, and he would've gladly paid more for less.

They kissed until Stiles lost track of time and his knuckles began to ache from their hold on Derek's shirt, but he had no intention of stopping. He was painfully hard in his jeans just from those few minutes, and when he shifted in an effort to relieve the discomfort, his hips met Derek's. He was hard too, and it took Stiles a minute more of exploring kisses to realize what was off about the return pressure against his hip.

"Oh God," Stiles said, the words a long, ragged moan when he managed to pull away enough to speak. "Are you not wearing underwear?"

Derek rolled his eyes, but didn't let him go or even move that far away.

"It's a Saturday," he said, breath hot against Stiles's jaw. "Give me a break."

"Dude, _so_ not a complaint." Stiles emphasized his words with a roll of his hips, better aimed this time, and he was gratified when Derek's eyelids almost fluttered and he pushed back. Stiles shuddered and repeated the motion with a slow, dragging grind. 

This…might've been a little hardcore for a first kiss, but whatever, Derek had given him his underwear for the first time _months_ ago. They were due for a little dry humping, although Stiles snorted at the thought. Honestly, there was nothing _little_ about any of this, not in any sense of the word, and it was with that in mind that he let go of Derek's shirt and slid his hand down, over his firm chest, to the drawstring waistband of his sweats. Stiles could barely feel the prickle of coarse hair against his fingertips, the presence of Derek's dark happy trail, and as much as he wanted to explore that at length, he continued moving his hand down before he could get distracted. He told himself he was just confirming a theory, and when he cupped Derek's cock gently through his sweatpants, he was proven right; Derek was _perfect_ , long enough to fill his hand and heavy enough that Stiles couldn't wait to get that weight on his tongue. Even better, Derek groaned like he was in heaven at only that touch. It was a wonderful sound, and Stiles squeezed him gently, hoping to repeat it. 

Derek began to rock gently against his hand, mouth wandering almost thoughtlessly over Stiles's jaw.

"You know," Stiles began, rubbing his hand in a gentle motion, tracing the outline of Derek's dick with thumb and forefinger like the tease he was. "I didn't think we'd ever get here. You're so hard to read."

Derek snorted and grabbed Stiles's hip with one hand, hard enough that Stiles jumped and his dick twitched embarrassingly in response.

"I'm not. And that better not have been a pun, or I'm not making you an omelet after this."

"Dude, you're going to make me _breakfast_?" Stiles said, so delighted that he almost missed Derek's soft "yeah" in response. The idea of a morning after breakfast was almost better than actually grinding up against his roommate in the kitchen, he decided, although he was forced to revise that assessment when Derek undid the button of his jeans. The relief of pressure was glorious, and it was immediately followed by Derek confidently reaching a hand into his underwear. His hand was warm and broad and unfamiliar, and it made Stiles moan, loudly enough that the neighbors probably heard it. 

This wasn't going to take long at all.

"Yeah," Stiles said, on a groan. Derek was holding him just tightly enough, jerking him nice and slow, and the sight of his hairy wrist working under the band of Stiles's underwear was _obscene_. "Yeah, like that."

Derek huffed and kissed him again, a slight press of their slack mouths together. It was almost sweet.

"Returning the favor might be nice," Derek said, with a nod down at Stiles's currently motionless hand, and oh, Stiles was all over that. He didn’t need any further instructions, and when he reached past the soft cotton band, he found Derek's cock already wet with pre-come and—oh God—he was uncut. Stiles's staring hadn't told him that, and now he was deeply regretting not launching himself at Derek's dick mouth first months ago.

He made due at the moment by jerking Derek off, hand moving fast enough that he'd probably get a cramp later. Derek immediately matched his pace, and Stiles began to breath faster, feeling almost dizzy.

"I am so sucking you off later. No, fuck that, I'm sucking you off _forever_."

"Sure," Derek agreed, mild enough that Stiles laughed. 

He was on the brink, could feel the orgasm building, and half a moment later, Stiles came with a shudder. His grip on Derek went slack in the post-orgasm bliss, but before he could feel like a sex failure, Derek's hand pressed down against his, hard. A few short thrusts of his hips later, Derek was shuddering right alongside him, and Stiles's hand was sticky. Scratch that; his underwear was sticky now too, and that was by far the more important part.

Stiles groaned and thumped his forehead lightly against Derek's shoulder. It was more comfortable than it should've been, considering he was resting on someone made of muscle.

"Shit, now I have to do laundry _again_."

"Yeah." Derek chuckled, a deep rumble in his chest that Stiles felt against his chin. "It's kind of fitting, anyway, since this entire thing started because you kept giving me your underwear."

Stiles was halfway through nodding, mind already drifting to post-coital bliss, when the words registered.

"Wait. _My_ underwear?"

***

The thong, as it turned out, was not Derek's, nor was it Stiles's. In fact, Derek's best guess, once he had this new information, was that it belonged to the boyfriend of the woman across the hall. It had been his first thought, apparently, right up until the thing kept showing up in the apartment. The misunderstanding would've been funny…no, it was funny, although Stiles had to resist the urge to run into his room and scrub down his desk like a dozen times. The only reason he resisted was because Derek was actually making an omelet just then, and he kept leaning into Stiles's shoulder, unintentionally, like he was subconsciously checking that Stiles was nearby. It was too nice to pass up, even if it left Stiles with another uncomfortable question to ask, and exactly zero filters between his brain and mouth.

"Wait, so, if the thong's not yours, what do you wear at work?"

Which lead to the conversation, also, that Derek wasn't a stripper, but in fact worked at an after-hour daycare, with actual kids. 

It was a significantly more awkward turn.

("But wait, what about the glitter?"

"Glitter for crafts, Stiles, not _body glitter._ What the fuck sort of strip clubs have you been going to?"

"None, apparently. Uh, sorry?")

Derek forgave the misunderstanding relatively quickly, though, thanks to the liberal application of the promised blowjobs. That and a present, months later, of a lacy thong, this time in a deep cobalt blue.

It was much more Derek's color anyway.

***

END

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is very welcome, and I hope you all enjoyed; come visit me on [Tumblr](http://notboldly.tumblr.com) if you want!
> 
> Also, aside from the occasional short Tumblr-type fic, this is the last thing you guys will see from me for a few months. I have a couple Big Bang things to do, so wish me luck!


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